


This Holiday Is Brought to You By Thrush

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Thrush plans to assassinate a cosmetics tycoon at his corporate holiday event. Can Napoleon and Illya stop them?Written for Down the Chimney on LJ’s MFU Writers Survival School. The prompts were a snowman, Thrush, and a velvet dinner jacket.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	This Holiday Is Brought to You By Thrush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlintheglen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/gifts).



Napoleon sat on a black leather sofa, his elbow on the armrest, his fist against his cheek. He stared at the view screen on the opposite wall with a slightly pained expression. On the other end of the sofa, Illya sat with his arms crossed, his feet propped on a low table. Neither man moved as the doors whispered open.

“On Christmas vacation already?” April asked.

“This is research,” Napoleon answered.

April looked from the agents to the view screen. “No, this is _Love Notes_. Let me through. I missed this episode.” She nudged Illya’s legs, which he lowered long enough to let her pass, and dropped onto the middle of the sofa.

Illya observed her enthralled expression and raised his brows. “You like this?”

“I adore it, darling. I watch it religiously…when I’m able, that is. What’s the story so far?”

“Boy meets Girl. Boy loses Girl,” Napoleon recited dully. “Boy asks Santa to leave Girl under his tree.” 

“Perfect,” April purred, settling back again the cushion.

Illya tried to make a comment, but April cut him off with a shush. They watched the story play out in a predictable fashion, accompanied by April’s occasional coos and sighs. The theme music swelled, and the reunited couple kissed under the mistletoe. April sniffed. Napoleon passed her his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes as the scene faded to black.

An image of a powder compact appeared on the screen, and an announcer declared, “ _Love Notes_ is brought to you by the Lake Beauty Company. Keep young and beautiful with Lake.”

The scene changed to the interior of a luxurious chalet. A young woman entered in a chenille velvet ski jacket. She had dark hair piled high at the crown and large, round eyes of the same shade. Napoleon and Illya sat up straighter. She opened a familiar compact and, applying the puff to her nose, reminded the viewers to keep their skin velvety smooth with Lake Face Powder. “And now for tonight’s musical guest, Nowell Harrington.”

A wipe took them to a different studio set, where a new singer, whose first release was climbing the charts, began to croon “Blue Velvet.”

“He looks a little like Mark,” April said.

Napoleon cocked his head. “I don’t see it.”

“So what’s the assignment? Infiltrating a Lonely Hearts Club?” 

“No, Lake Beauty,” Illya responded. “Thrush wants to take them over.”

“Trying that line again, are they?” She shook her head. “That’s where I came in.”

“Vallée Violette Cosmetics has attempted to buy them out, but Edward Lake will not sell.”

“So Thrush plans to eliminate Lake,” Napoleon said, “and gain control in the aftermath.”

“And you two are assigned to protect him.”

Napoleon grimaced. “Yes, but he’s not making it easy. Lake holds an event each December to reward his top sellers. It’s the perfect opportunity for Thrush to make their move. But Lake refuses to cancel it.”

“Every invitee and hotel staff member has had to be vetted,” Illya grumbled.

“And we have to be as knowledgeable about this show as we are about the product line.” Napoleon picked up a booklet from the side table and waved it toward the view screen.

With a squeal, April snatched the publication from his hand. She devoured the private details of Lake’s newest cosmetics while her companions on the sofa waited out the song in bored silence. 

When the musical interlude ended, the show returned to the chalet. Napoleon and Illya perked up. The young woman wore a gown of sapphire velvet with an embossed skirt, a bow accentuating the high waist.

“What a gorgeous dress,” April said as the young woman introduced the second and final love story. “I bet you it’s a Gale Michell. They always name the designers at the end.”

Napoleon mumbled a vague reply while he watched the screen with an appreciative smile.

“So there’s something worthwhile about this show after all?” She nudged his shoulder.

“Penelope Lake is a very lovely girl.”

“Any girl would be if her father owned a cosmetics company.”

“Meow,” Napoleon said lightly.

April bristled, then laughed. “Well, I do envy her wardrobe.”

“You wear dresses like that all the time.”

“But I have to save the world in them.” She gestured to the screen, where a male hand offered Penelope a glass of champagne. “She gets to lounge around while a handsome man fawns over her.”

“You’ve had your sharing of fawning. I review all your reports, remember?”

“By men who want to kill me. That’s not what he has in mind.” She sighed as Penelope and the male model linked arms and sipped their drinks.

“It might be when he finds out what she paid for that dress,” Illya said.

April turned to look at him. “The trouble with you is, there’s no romance in your soul.”

“There is. I do not think it requires designer clothes, however.” 

Onscreen, Penelope bid the viewers enjoy the story, then ran her hands over the man’s velvet smoking jacket as he embraced her.

“It’s not required,” April said, “but it sure doesn’t hurt. Will you get to meet her?”

“Yes,” Illya answered. “Meeting the face of Lake Beauty is one of the privileges of the event.” 

April eyed the stack of tapes on the table. “How many of these have you watched so far?”

“This is our first.” He grunted and uncrossed his ankles. “It is going to be a long day.”

April kicked off her shoes and tucked her stockinged feet beneath her. “Don’t worry, darlings. I’ll be here to support you every moment.”

Penelope Lake fingered the braid that trimmed the wide velvet lapels of Napoleon’s dinner jacket. “Really, Mr. Solo,” she said, as they swayed on the dance floor, “your drug stores sold that much of our product last year? That’s remarkable.”

“Well, I tell you, Miss Lake,” Napoleon drawled, “we’ve got the prettiest gals ‘deep in the heart of Texas,’ and Lake cosmetics keep them that way.” He chuckled heartily.

She added her own polite laugh. As lovely as she was in print and on TV, Penelope was even more so in the flesh. The ivory satin gown, embroidered with sprigs of holly, emphasized the smooth perfection of her pale, slender arms, her swanlike neck, and her narrow face. Her dark hair spiraled up into an elaborate tower, pinned with a sprig of silk holly, and her dark, luminous eyes shone with keen intelligence.

“And what about your, uh, cowboys?” she asked. “Could they find a use for a men’s line from Lake?”

“Like fancy aftershave and cologne?” Napoleon twisted his face in a show of thought. “That’d be a tough sell. But you might convince their gals to buy it for them.”

Penelope nodded. “With a _Love Notes_ set in Texas.”

“And get one of them singers in rhinestones for the middle.”

“We could also buy time during a Western, whichever draws the biggest audience. ‘Cowgirls cry “ki yippee yi” for a Lake man.’”

“Why, it’d fly off my shelves.” Napoleon’s look of admiration had nothing to do with her appearance. “You came up with that right on this dance floor. I sure am impressed, little lady.”

The song ended, and the dancers applauded the band.

“Not a word of this to anyone, Mr. Solo. I’ll need someone with knowledge of the local market, and I’d hate to turn to one of your competitors.”

“No, ma’am. I’ll be as quiet as the grave.”

Penelope declined his offer of escort back to her table and walked off toward the powder room.

Napoleon trailed after her as far as the bar. “A martini, barkeep.”

The Section III nodded and mixed the drink.

A blond man stood next to him. His velvet dinner jacket was midnight blue with a pale blue silk shirt underneath. He wore black trousers with a satin stripe and matching satin bow tie.

“Howdy, partner,” Napoleon said. “Those are some right fancy duds.”

“California has been good to me,” Illya replied. 

“Where’s Lake?”

“Glad-handing.”

Napoleon followed Illya’s gaze to a table where Edward Lake stood talking jovially with his top midwestern salesmen and their wives. Lake drained his highball glass as they watched.

“There goes another one,” Illya said. “At least he holds it well.”

“I hope UNCLE supplied enough bourbon. I would prefer not to use the hotel’s stock.”

“Where’s Penelope?”

“Powder room.” He pointed his martini at an alcove with two doors. Section III’s were on duty as attendants behind each. “She’s a right smart little lady.”

When Illya frowned, Napoleon gave a quick grin, then dropped the accent. “Lake should have told her about Thrush. She’s more capable than he thinks.”

“Some men cannot see beyond a pretty face,” Illya said, “even when it is their own daughter’s.”

Penelope exited the ladies’ room and headed for the tables, deftly deflecting the women who hoped to pump her for gossip about the male guests on her show. 

“Yoo-hoo, Miss Lake,” Napoleon called. 

She joined them, a polite, fixed smile in place.

“Would you care for another dance? I do the best two-step north of Austin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Solo, but I think I’ll sit this one out.” She looked at Illya, and her smile widened. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Penelope Lake.”

“Illya Kuryakin.” He lifted her extended hand and brushed his lips against it.

Napoleon grimaced. “One of them hand-kissers. Back where I’m from, we don’t trust such fellers.”

“And where I am from, we do not trust a man who greets a beautiful woman any other way.”

“You intrigue me, Mr. Kuryakin.” She looked at his name badge. “I must visit Palm Springs.”

“Though California has been very good to me, my birthplace lies many miles away and, alas, now lives only in my heart.”

Penelope squeezed the hand which Illya had pressed to his lapel. Napoleon swallowed his martini, then signaled the bartender. “Another.”

Illya held out his arm. “May I escort you to your table?”

“By all means.” She grasped his velvet sleeve. “See you later, Mr. Solo.”

He raised his glass to them as they walked away.

“I’m curious,” Penelope said. “What would you think of Lake’s chances if we expanded into the European market?”

“Hypothetically?”

She tapped his arm. “And confidentially.”

“We would be up against established brands like Yardley’s. But our product is just as good.” He stopped and looked at her. “And you would outshine Jean Shrimpton any day.”

She read his face, apparently satisfied by what she saw. “The Lake Look. I knew it was bigger than one country. It’s for the whole world.”

Triumph lit her dark eyes. Like a _Love Notes_ swain of the week, Illya found himself starting into their depths. Then one of his brows raised the tiniest bit before he checked it. Her pupils were dilated.

They returned to her table. Edward Lake was seated there, a rotund man with a gravelly baritone and the same dark eyes as his daughter.

“Penny, my pet, fetch me another drink. I gotta rest these tired old legs.”

Penelope looked at the empty glasses on the table and frowned. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

He patted her fingers. “Just like a little mother hen. I know my limit, precious, and I’m at least one drink away from it. Now be quick about it. It’s almost time for you to introduce the floor show.”

“I can get it, Mr. Lake,” Illya offered.

“No, I’ll go,” Penelope said. “I know how he likes them. Another bourbon and water?”

“What else? Not too much water, now.” He wagged a plump finger at her. 

“Yes, Dad.”

As she turned to go, a look flashed in her eyes, wounded and bitter. Illya felt sorry for her.

“Well, Mr. Kuryakin,” Lake rumbled when his daughter was out of earshot, “I bet you and Mr. Solo are feeling just a little bit foolish.”

“Why would that be?”

“All this fuss for nothing. Everything’s gone just as smooth as silk.”

“The night is not over yet,” Illya replied dourly and, with a slight bow, excused himself to return to his assigned table.

The band finished playing, and the dance floor began to clear. Napoleon took the seat next to Lake. Penelope delivered her father’s drink, no trace of resentment on her face. She kissed his cheek before making her way toward the small stage. 

Lake downed half his drink, then pursed his lips. “Wow, that’s bitter.” He pulled out the twist of lemon and dropped it onto the table.

“Do you want me to get you another?” Napoleon asked.

“No, no.” One pudgy hand waved aside the offer. “Just a bad lemon. You should try the rotgut I drank during Prohibition.” He drained the glass with an air of defiance.

Penelope stepped behind the microphone, her satin dress glowing under the bright lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us here tonight, and thank you for all you do to make Lake Beauty a household name.” She waited out a round of applause. “We received more letters about tonight’s guest after his appearance on _Love Notes_ than anyone else this year. I know you’ll be as thrilled as I am that he could sing for us tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, Nowell Harrington.”

The lanky young man in a mod version of a Santa Suit, a small sack over his shoulder, stepped out from the wings to another round of applause. He blew Penelope a kiss as she returned to her seat, then took the microphone off its stand.

Two performers, a man and woman, stepped onto the dance floor. Each wore a top hat, a red scarf, and a costume of spherical white segments. As the band began to play, the snowgirl danced enticingly around the snowman, who in turn danced out his rejection. 

“Athletics, cosmetics, a weighing machine are part of the feminine daily routine for what?” Harrington sang. “And oceans of lotions and potions you take to keep that old something or other awake. Why not?”

Harrington sat on the edge of the stage and waved the weeping snowgirl over. “Even after you grow old, baby, you don’t have to be a cold baby.”

A smattering of applause anticipated the next lyric, the slogan of the Lake Beauty Company. “Keep young and beautiful. It's your duty to be beautiful. Keep young and beautiful if you want to be loved.”

Harrington pulled an oversized Lake compact from his sack. “Don't fail to do your stuff with a little powder and a puff.” He handed it to the snowgirl, who dusted her face. Lake’s baritone joined in as Harrington sang the refrain. “Keep young and beautiful if you want to be loved.”

“If you're wise, exercise all the fat off,” Harrington continued. “Take it off, off of here, off of there.” As the singer pointed to the snowgirl’s segments, Lake’s gravelly laughter sounded. The empty glasses jumped as he slapped his hand on the table.

“Take care of all those charms, and you'll always be in someone's arms.” The snowgirl spun repeatedly. When she stopped, the spherical segments were at her feet, revealing a skimpy costume that had hidden underneath. The audience clapped, and Lake whistled loudly. Penelope laid a restraining hand on his arm. Napoleon and Illya exchanged a concerned glance. Lake had misjudged his limit.

The snowgirl danced circles around the snowman, who now pursued her. “Oh, a slim little waste is a pleasure, and a trim little limb is divine. Oh, a sly little eye is a treasure. It’ll get him drunker than wine.”

The snowman finally caught the snowgirl in his embrace. “Get him to hold you tight. Let him get a whiff of Christmas night.”

As the snow couple kissed, Harrington’s tenor soared in the final refrain. “And keep young and beautiful if you want to be loved.”

Lake staggered to his feet, clapping and hooting, as the performers took their bows. His guests stood as well and whispered to each other while they applauded, commenting on their founder’s intoxication.

“Dad, please,” Penelope pleaded, as Lake shouted incoherently. 

“He’s red as a beet,” Napoleon said from the side of his mouth when Illya appeared behind him. “I wonder how his ticker is under that avoirdupois.”

Illya grasped Lake’s wrist. The pulse, when he found it, was racing. The skin was hot and dry. Illya turned Lake roughly by the shoulders to see his eyes. They were dilated, even more than his daughter’s, and lacked focus. 

“He’s drunk,” Penelope moaned. “Can’t we get him out of here before he humiliates himself?”

“I think that would be wise,” Illya said simply. The look he gave Napoleon communicated much more.

Napoleon signaled the band leader, another Section III, who invited the guests back onto the dance floor, to Harrington’s obvious surprise. The singer quickly regained his professional aplomb, however, and sang so well that no one could guess it was not at all how the number had been rehearsed.

Napoleon and Illya each took one of Lake’s arms and led him slowly from the table. He reeled like a man blind drunk, almost pulling the agents down with him. Napoleon made brief eye contact with the bartender, who stepped into the storeroom to alert UNCLE HQ.

Napoleon thrust his chin toward the ladies’ room. “Is there a couch in there?”

“Yes,” Penelope answered. She ran ahead and held open the door.

The agent inside gave a theatrical shriek for Penelope’s benefit as the men invaded the powder room. Napoleon and Illya heaved Lake onto the delicate sofa, which creaked in protest. Lake muttered angrily and unintelligibly. Penelope knelt beside him.

Napoleon whipped out his Special and pointed it at Illya. “Hands in the air, you.”

“Mr. Solo,” Penelope cried, “what are you doing?”

“Apprehending a dangerous criminal.” He patted Illya down with one hand and removed the pistol from under his velvet jacket. “Ah-ha. I knew it.” He dropped the weapon into his pocket.

“I don’t understand,” Penelope said weakly, looking at Illya in shock.

“Your father has received death threats, Miss Lake, and I was here to protect him. Unfortunately, this despicable fiend got to him first.”

Penelope clutched her father’s fitful hand. “You mean he’s dying?”

“Poisoned by the looks of it. But don’t worry. My men have already summoned an ambulance.” He waved the attendant toward Penelope. “Now I must ask you to step outside for a while. This vile rogue knows the antidote, and I may have to use violence to drag its name out of him.”

“Come, miss.” The attendant gently but firmly pulled Penelope to her feet and steered her to the door. 

Penelope shook the hand from her arm. “No, people will be watching.” She straightened her shoulders and assumed a brave smile. As they left, the attendant’s tiny nod indicated she would not leave Penelope’s side.

Illya counted to five after the door had closed, then held out his hand. 

Napoleon fished the weapon from his pocket and returned it. “So what do you know?”

“Atropine poisoning,” Illya said as each man holstered his Special.

Napoleon grimaced. “It fits the symptoms. How was it administered?”

“Probably in his drink.”

Napoleon’s mouth fell open. “The bitter lemon. But that means Agent Morrison…”

He started for the door, but Illya grabbed his arm. “No. Penelope.”

“Really? You’re sure?”

Illya nodded. “Her pupils are dilated. At first I thought she might be using amphetamines. When I observed Lake’s symptoms, I recalled that their product line includes an eye wash.”

Napoleon squinted in thought. “I saw that. Restores youth and brilliance, etc, to tired eyes. And let me guess. High on its list of ingredients is…”

“Atropine,” they said together.

“So Thrush got to Penelope,” Napoleon said.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she grew tired of being merely the face of Lake Beauty and desired be the brains as well.”

“Either way, we’ve got to know for sure. He doesn’t have much time.” He looked at Lake, whose muttering was subsiding, then snapped his fingers rapidly at Illya. “Take off your tie.”

“Why?”

“To keep up appearances.”

With a roll of his eyes, Illya removed his satin tie and handed it over. Napoleon bound his wrists, and when Illya was seated in a chair, opened the door slightly. “Miss Lake, you can come back now.”

Penelope entered, the attendant close behind. “My father, is he…?”

“He’s alive…for now. This villain has confessed the whole dastardly scheme. With that knowledge, there’s a chance the doctors can save him.”

Penelope looked at Illya, who curled his lip at her. She pressed a hand to her head, swaying. The attendant wrapped an arm around her and led her to a chair. 

“Miss Lake needs some aspirin,” Napoleon said.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I insist. You’ve had a nasty shock.”

The attendant removed a twist of paper from her apron and shook out a tablet onto her palm. Meeting Napoleon’s unblinking gaze, she shook out another. 

Napoleon filled a glass of water from a silver pitcher on a side table. He took the tablets from the attendant. “Here. They’ll do you good.” He pressed them into Penelope’s hand. When she hesitated, he said, “People will be watching.”

She put the tablets in her mouth and washed them down with the water he handed her. She shuddered. Lifting angry, terrified eyes to Napoleon, she tried to stand. The attendant pushed her down with a hand on her shoulder. 

Napoleon looked at his watch. “Ten, nine, eight…” He counted down the seconds. Illya shook off his satin bonds and joined his partner.

“Two, one, blastoff. What’s your name?”

“Penelope Ann Lake,” she responded woodenly. 

“Who is your father?”

“Edward Lake.”

“Did you try to kill your father tonight?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Poison.”

“What kind?” Napoleon demanded.

“Dew Drop Eye Wash in his drink.”

Illya activated his communicator. “Open Channel D. Priority One.”

“Why?” Napoleon asked her.

Penelope smiled. “They said it would work. They said I’d be in charge. They said we’d conquer the world.”

Napoleon’s lips twisted sadly. “They always do.”

Napoleon and Illya stood as the young woman approached their table. She wore a gown of sapphire velvet with an embossed skirt, a bow accentuating the high waist. 

“Honestly, darlings, you shouldn’t have,” April said insincerely.

“Yes, we should,” Illya replied, pushing in her chair as she was seated.

“We thought about what you told us,” Napoleon said, sitting down, “and knew what your Christmas present should be.”

“A gorgeous gown and a night on the town,” Illya said as he poured her a glass of champagne. 

“With two men fawning over you.” Napoleon held up a plate of canapés.

“Make that three men.” A lanky Brit with light brown hair and twinkling green eyes pulled over a chair. He wore a yellow damask dinner jacket trimmed in black velvet. 

“Mark, sweetheart,” April cried. “I thought you were in Sri Lanka.”

“Was. Got back this afternoon.” He picked up Napoleon’s glass, as yet untouched. “Champagne? Ta.” 

Napoleon frowned as Mark sipped his drink, then raised a finger in the air. A waiter appeared at his elbow. “May I help you, sir?”

“Set another place, please.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“And more champagne, my good man,” Mark called after him.

April shook her head and smiled fondly at his antics. “I read in the paper that Penelope Lake has retired as the face of Lake Beauty.”

Illya spread caviar on a cracker. “Yes, according to the press release, she’s dedicated to a life of solitude and good works.”

“That’s, ah, one way to put it,” Napoleon said. He looked at April. “In January Edward Lake is holding a contest to find the new Lake Beauty girl.”

“Really? Do you think I should enter?” she replied archly. 

He smiled. “I think you’d be a shoo-in.”

April looked at the ceiling dreamily. “Photo shoots. Television shows. Designer gowns. Handsome men. And no danger.” She laughed. “How dull that sounds. I prefer to continue saving the world.”

“We much prefer that too, milady,” Mark assured her.

The waiter returned with the place setting and the champagne. When all their glasses were refilled, Napoleon held his up. “If you’d indulge me a moment, there’s a toast from my childhood I’d like to share.” He cleared his throat. “The light of the Christmas star to you. The warmth of home and hearth to you. The cheer and good will of friends to you. The…” He twisted his lips as he tried to recall the words.

“The hope of a childlike heart to you,” April continued with a misty smile. “The joy of a thousand angels to you. The love of the Son and God’s peace to you.”

The four agents touched glasses, the sound like the tinkling of bells. 

“Merry Christmas, my darlings,” April exclaimed. “And Happy New Year!”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for atropine poisoning via eye wash was inspired by _A Pinch of Poison_ by Frances and Richard Lockridge.
> 
> The song "Keep Young and Beautiful" is by Al Dubin and Harry Warren.


End file.
